


Paralyzed

by BrightneeBee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time-Turner Reversal Challenge, Fic#3<br/>The Wizarding World equivalent of the Holocaust is on the horizon, and Umbridge is the Minister of Magic, financially backed by the pureblood supremacists. Imprisoned in the depths of the Ministry, Hermione Granger has been experimented on for years under minor supervision by Umbridge and Lucius Malfoy. Her warden, Snape, attempts everything, but the ability he seeks to unleash from the mudblood goes unnoticed. Lord Voldemort seems a nice trade compared to Umbridge, right? Hermione is definitely hoping so...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paralyzed

Title: Paralyzed

 

Author: brightneeBee

 

Title of the Challenge: Time Turner Reversal Challenge

 

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Rating: T (fanfiction.net), NoSex (AFFnet), PG-13 (AO3)**

 

**Warnings: AU/TimeTravelForward Fic - Umbridge in power, but some alterations to time still end with a somewhat same result. ;)**

 

Genre: Alternate Universe

 

Summary: The Wizarding World equivalent of the Holocaust is on the horizon, and Umbridge is the Minister of Magic, financially backed by the pureblood supremacists. Imprisoned in the depths of the Ministry, Hermione Granger has been experimented on for years under minor supervision by Umbridge and Lucius Malfoy. Her warden, Snape, attempts everything, but the ability he seeks to unleash from the mudblood goes unnoticed. Lord Voldemort seems a nice trade compared to Umbridge, right? Hermione is definitely hoping so...

 

Beta Appreciation: Thanks to Star-Hugger, who so graciously offered to Beta this piece. I am very thankful to her help, and appreciate the time she made in her schedule to review and search out any mistakes that I made. Thank you, Star! *hugs*

Word Count:

  
  
  


_______________________________________________________

 

            Hermione remembered when she was a little girl and she believed in fairy tales. She always turned to the fantasy of what her life would be like. The white dress and Prince Charming who would carry her away to a castle on a hill, in those dreams. She would lie in bed at night and close her eyes and had complete and utter faith. She would read about princesses locked in high towers, princes who woke slumbering beauties with love’s first kiss, a house full of short, grumpy miners and a maid with snow-white skin. Fairy tales; they were so close she could taste them. But, eventually, she grew up. One day she opened her eyes and the fairy tales disappeared. Most people turn to the things and people they can trust. But the thing is it’s hard to let go of that fairy tale entirely ‘cause almost everyone has that smallest bit of hope, of faith. She had always clung to that faith that one day she would open her eyes and it would come true.

But that had been so long ago, when she was naive to the evil in the world outside of the safety of her home. Her eyes had been opened when the “purges” began; robed men invaded who houses and killed anyone who did not pass a certain test. They held ornate pieces of wood - wands, she knew what the sticks were now - and said magical words and colors lit up the room. Her parents hadn’t passed the test, but Hermione had with “interesting results.” The frowny men would have taken her if the silver-haired wizard in bright orange robes hadn’t shown up and fought the mean men. She knew now the gravity of the situation. She knew that the ominous men in the black robes were called Registrars, and that her hero was a grandfather-esque wizard - a brilliant man - named Dumbledore. She even knew that since her parents did not pass the “tests” the Registrars performed on them during the invasion, they died. The emerald green light the left the tips of the mens’ wands had ended her parents’ lives, leaving them in a peaceful state as Hermione was dragged from the collapsing wreckage of her childhood home.

That was the day the fairy tales disappeared. Now she was twenty-years-old, still clinging to that hope, that faith that she would wake up from this nightmare and the fairy tales would still be there and would come true if she wished hard enough. It was guileless, naive but if she didn’t have faith, what else would there be to this life? And at the end of the day, faith was a very thing. It turned up when she didn’t really expect it, expanded in her chest and warmed her during cold nights. It was like one day she realized that the fairy tale may be slightly different than she dreamed. The castle may not be a castle, and it wasn’t so important “happy ever after,” just that it was happy right now. She realized that once in awhile, once in a blue moon, people could surprise her. And once in awhile, people could even take her breath away.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

She was cold. The stone altar that she was chained to was always so cold. The air in the laboratory was always so hot and humid - it was boiling - but the slate slab underneath her was dreadfully cold. It was a conundrum; the room was so hot, but her skin felt like she had been dumped into an ice bath. Always cold, so hard to breathe, stuffy. Every day was the same.

What experiment was her warden pursuing today? Or was it night? There were no windows in her cell down the hall, nor were there any clocks on the walls in Mr. Mad Scientist’s lab. It was difficult to correlate times after living in the dark for so long. And it was so hard to remember anything when the ominous experiments were looming mere hours away. She had been put through so many in the last - had it been months? No, years. Almost two years. And all on Dolores bloody Umbridge’s orders, of course. _“Bloody ‘Queen’ of the magical world, creator of the Muggleborn Registration Act...with her tirade against mudbloods and Muggles and half-breeds. With her ‘I. Will. Have. Order!’ The bloody bitch...”_ And Snape was like the mad scientist of Umbridge’s infrastructure, the empire the Malfoy/Umbridge alliance had built under the guise of the Ministry of Magic. The greasy haired, hooked-nosed wizard was always tinkering away in the dungeon laboratories on a multitude of projects simultaneously. It was always so muggy down here because cauldrons were simmering constantly. Her cell was more comfortable than the lab; always cold and empty and the air seemed crisp, easy to breathe. Every time she was chained to the stone slab in the potions lab, she felt like she was about to be cut open and sacrificed in the name of some God that she never heard of before.

Sacrifice. It seemed funny to her, contemplating sacrifice and the ethics of human experimentation.

Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice...

It seemed her life had been nothing but sacrifices, one after the other. Letting go of her parents before she turned six, accepting a life of hiding in a house with other refugee muggleborns; resigning to the fact that she would always be second rate in the eyes of everyone around her. All because Harry bloody Potter was the “Savior of the Wizarding World.”

Sacrifice. There were books filled with philosophical debates in relation to the sacrifices one faced during life. She remembered reading a book that Dumbledore had slipped to her behind Mr. Weasley’s back. If the ginger-haired, kind eyed wizard had seen a muggle book Hermione would never have been able to read it - the man was so in love with muggles and anything related to them. The author of the book had written, “You can have anything in life, if you will sacrifice everything else for it.” Hermione liked to think that what the author meant was nothing came without a price. Before a person went into a battle, they better decide how much they are willing to lose. She understood that too often, going after what feels good, means letting go of what one knows is right. And letting someone in means abandoning the walls that a lifetime was spent building. Of course, the toughest sacrifices are the ones no one sees coming. When there isn’t time to come up with a strategy, to pick a side, or to measure the potential loss. When that happens - when the battle chooses a person or a group of potential warriors - and not the other way around, that is when the sacrifice can turn out to be more than anyone can bear.

Hermione had always wondered, “Why me?” Especially with regards to the sacrifices she had already made.

Snape said it was because there was something about her, something “otherworldly” and “wild” and “corruptible” just under the surface that needed to be unleashed. That she wasn’t just a “mudblood” witch, that there was something else that would become extremely valuable to solidify the “New Ministry” and its position in the world, and would help Umbridge’s creatures - Registrars - defeat Dumbledore and his “boy wonder.”

Almost two years and the “dark side” still could not pinpoint what there was to corrupt in her.

At first, her captivity under Snape had merely been her chained to the stone slab in the lab. Being tested on, poked and prodded while her mind was invaded through Legilimency and blood was pulled out through her skin and placed in vials. And then she was being put under the most excruciating ancient rituals, her jaw being pried open and disgusting potions poured down her throat. Soon testing would follow at the end of the day before she was thrown back into her cell to suffer the after effects alone. She was beginning to think that Snape was misrepresenting. That there wasn’t anything “special” about her and they were experimenting on her to _create_ the Ministry a weapon against Dumbledore. She wasn’t sure what for exactly, but after so much time had passed she hardly cared what they did to her.

Trapped in her own body, she couldn’t move, speak; the most she could do was think, speak, move her eyes to take in slivers of her environment. Most of the time she lived in her mind and broadcasted to any mind-reader in close proximity every last thought running through her brain.

A chill traveled down her spine. Cold, she was cold. Chilled. The inevitable urge to shiver was denied, and she cursed the fact that she had no physical control over her own body. She was a prisoner, a lab rat for these horrible people who were attempting to find some breakthrough change in the compound dynamics of her DNA. That was what she had deciphered from what was done during the daily testing she was put under. Snape would test her in the morning to see if there had been any change during the night, prying her mouth open and dump several distinctive potions into her, and then he would put her body through its paces. She would be chanted over, cursed, her blood drawn and analyzed; tortured in basic, simpleton terminology. She was maimed in some form regularly, it was a daily basis sort of thing.

The list of potions used on her could be listed entirely, but she was certain that it would take several hours. Oracle’s Blood, a clear vial of diluted blood from Grecian Seers that _supposedly_ allowed ordinary magical beings the temporary ability to foresee the future, had proven nothing more than to plague Hermione with nightmares and seizures. Painful seizures. Epileptic episodes that made her brain feel as if it were being flash-frozen in liquid nitrogen, struck by a hammer and shattered, over and over again.

There were several altered brews of lust potions, as well. Hermione suspected Snape of thinking she was late-blooming  Succubus, but the results had proven far from that of a sexually awakened coitus-demon. If anything, the lust potions merely left her feeling an excruciating ache between her legs and flames roaming her body. Her only salvation in the throes of epilepsy and raging lust was the fact that Snape refrained from molesting, raping, or otherwise violating her body in any manner.

Except for the whipping. The wizard did quite enjoy her unresponsive body swinging to and fro as her inner voice screamed from the pain. He healed her afterwards, but not until he traced every bleeding lacerations to her back with a probing finger. He was inquisitive, not malicious in those moments. As though the sight alone was enough to pause and examine the damage he had done. His eyes, liquid black and unemotional most of the time, always held that flare of appeal and interest as he repaired the wounds and laid her back down on her chilly slab of stone.

And then there was the hunger. She assumed that could be a form of tribulation. She had not eaten for months that she could remember. When evening slowly encroached, Snape seemed to think it a waste of time to dribble bland broth into her mouth. He had been sustaining her by administering Nutritional potions brews instead of reversing her paralysis and allowing her to bolt down a meal of bread and broth in her cell. The fact that he had not tried to reverse her invalid state was simply because it could not be reversed, from what she had gathered by observation. And that realization terrified her. Chilled her to the bone. She did not want to live a life where she could not move a single finger or toe. She would rather prove un-useful and be put out of her misery. Euthanization would be a much better, more humane, solution to leaving her as a living corpse unable to do more than breathe and think.

_Let’s not forget about the wonderful  creation made by Mr. Scientist, himself,_ Hermione drawled sarcastically, luring the attention of Snape’s turned ear. _Mind your own business, you nosey bugger._

It earned her a chuckle from the usually frowning man, but it was a chuckle nonetheless; one more thing that she could not do in her current state.

_“He is a nosey bugger, is he not?”_ a familiar voice traveled through her mind in an echoing resonance that bordered a smooth tenor that caused the urge to shiver again. The spectre of the Dark Lord, Voldemort, from legend stepped between Snape and her, smirking down at her before circling the cantankerous wizard chopping at the large table. _“Look at that nose...It is quite hawk-like.”_

A giggle bubbled up in her and escaped. The noise caused Snape to pause his blade between slicing some incongruous ingredient - most likely something harvested from a living being. The pale skinned, black haired wizard turned his inscrutable gaze around to focus on her. That one black eyebrow was arched in a question. It said, “What is so funny, Miss Granger?” She refrained from answering by meeting his gaze and telling him to “ignore the flaccid girl in the corner like usual,” with a biting tone to her silent reply.

“Your attitude today is quite disconcerting, Miss Granger,” said Snape, returning to his chopping. “Almost as if you are attempting to hide something from me.”

_“Thought I said to mind your business,”_ she snapped, turning her attention back to Voldemort’s spectral form.

_“He is extremely perceptive,”_ spectre-Voldemort analyzed sarcastically. _“And you resent him, almost as much as you hate Dumbledore. Why is that, Hermione? One would think you would admire his intelligence...his innovation in the art of everything that he touches...”_

_“Snape is not as intelligent as... **others**_ ,” she answered, her inner-voice the only side of the conversation that Snape could hear. She had spent the last two months skirting around the edges of alerting Warden Snape to the presence of a time traveler stuck between the past and present. And Voldemort understood who she meant by “others.” She held him in quite high regards, her Dark Knight who would someday ride in on his black stallion and rescue her. Once she figured out how to bring him forth. _“And I don’t resent him as much as I should. He is just doing as he is told; following orders under the Umbridge-regime. All financially backed by Lucius bloody Malfoy and his sycophantic purebloods; the money behind the Ministry. If he was more intelligent, he would know better. Once he fulfills his usefulness, Umbridge will have him executed, discreetly. Umbridge and her pretty pink, tweed dress-suits will not allow a halfblood to live.”_

_“I may find him quite useful under my rule,”_ said Voldemort. _“Once you bring me forward, my precious little mudblood. You should see the value in him. He has so many ideas, and the determination to see his theories through to groundbreaking result. As you are a treasure, a rare commodity, he is similar.”_

_“Hmph.”_

Roaming the room, he hit an invisible wall; the end of his leash, as it were.

Voldemort could stroll around in a translucent state of being, invisible to the eyes of all except her, but he had limited range. The statuesque, tall figure with incredibly pale, smooth skin and dark, penetrating eyes - a man of forty-something, although he didn’t look a day over thirty - only had a range of twelve metres. He was directly connected to her in an otherworldly, vague way that had yet to be explained. He still lived in the past. The most that Hermione could decipher was that it was something to do with her. Voldemort had said it plainly, and in that eloquent tenor, that she had “an affinity with time.” Whatever that meant.

Where had she been? Oh, yes. Torture, and Dumbledore and Snape...Might as well throw in the Weasleys to the mix, as well.

Snape was supposed to have been Dumbledore’s man. Spy for the Order of the Phoenix until the prophecy regarding the Potters and the Longbottoms turned up with Umbridge’s name on it, too. Like a semi-intelligent pureblood witch with a modicum of common sense (Hermione would have snorted at that if she had been able) Umbridge had targeted both families the prophecy revolved around. Dispatching her secret little army of Registrars to do the dirty business, James and Lily Potter died, but not before the muggleborn mother stepped in front of her son to save his life. The attempts to kill Harry Potter failed. The Longbottoms had merely been tortured into insanity when they refused to stop fighting against Umbridge and the Ministry’s “Anti-Muggleborn Regime.” Little Neville Longbottom had grown up with his Gran, off the grip and thoroughly under the Ministry’s radar. Hermione had suspected that Neville’s grandmother picked up some luggage and took off with her grandson to the States, where it was safe.

_“You have rambled yourself off topic, mudblood,_ ” Voldemort commented, smirking at her from a few meters away and just in her line of sight.

Oh, right. Snape.

Snape was supposedly Dumbledore’s man, yes, that was what she had been saying. Apparently, Severus Snape had been in love with Lily Potter during his Hogwarts years. It was very cliche. Adolescent boy loves adolescent girl, both grow up as friends, adolescent boy remains in the “friend zone,” adolescent boy does something mean in the heat of embarrassment, adolescent girl ends friendship; it all goes downhill from there. Being a loyal follower of the Malfoy/Umbridge before his beloved Lily was targeted, her death had supposedly brought about a change in him. According to Mrs. Weasley at the refugee camp, Snape had begged for Lily’s life. Something along the lines of “kill the rest, but let Lily live,” all selfish and snivelling. Yes, kill the baby and the husband, but save the one person he wants more than life. Oh, how romantic.

Obviously, having the money to pursue potions-experiments was more important than paying respect to the loss of Lily Potter’s life. He looked very happily assimilated in the dark side, from Hermione’s point of view. This was the man Dumbledore had trusted - probably still did trust - and Hermione had seen glimpses of him from her tent in the camps. Hermione had been the eldest muggleborn, and then Harry Potter. Even if Harry was a halfblood, once the purges began and muggles were being murdered for no reason, Dumbledore had hidden the “Chosen One” in the middle of mudblood-central.

Oh, Harry...the supposed Savior of the Wizarding World. She was almost a year older then him, wiser in ways, less oblivious to human nature than he. There had always been something strange about Harry. He seemed to innocent and sweet to be Dumbledore’s champion in the war.

Of course, the Weasleys weren’t so innocent and selfless in Hermione’s mind anymore. The Wealseys had taken Harry under their wing, and he had fallen for their youngest, a girl. Ginny. Before Hermione had been taken by Lucius to - well, wherever she was - Harry had been caught outside of the security wards by the Registrars. There had been a standoff between Dumbledore and Lucius, and as far as she was concerned Albus Dumbledore - along with the rest of the Order - could go off and screw himself. He and the Weasleys were the reason she was here in the first place. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley hadn’t even thought twice.

Hand over the mudblood like Lucius Malfoy asked just to get Harry bloody Potter back. Who cares if intelligent, useful Hermione gets locked in a dungeon cell, chained to stone slab altars - naked - and tortured and experimented on every day? No, Hermione could be maimed and killed, but as long as Ginny got Harry; as long as the wizarding world got their “savior” back, who the bloody hell cared what happened to the insufferable, little know-it-all **_MUDBLOOD?!_**

“Miss, Granger, cease with the internal tirade!” Snape growled from his work bench. “If I could teach you Occlumency, I would...it would save me from the daily migraine!”

_“So much rage inside of you, Hermione,”_ noted Voldemort, who had listened to more than one rant about her situation and those who betrayed her. _“It always does surprise me that one so gentle and pure can become so livid...and most of the time.”_

She ignored Voldemort to pick away at Snape’s collected facade. _“Oh, boo hoo! Poor Mr. Mad Scientist! His head hurts - someone call the medic! Wouldn’t want poor Snape to be in **pain** , would we?_

Hermione’s mind exploded with anger, again. She was always so angry, like the Dark Lord had said. She did feel like she had a void filled with silent rage; rage waiting to be released. But there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Really, what could she do? Blink at him furiously? Glare? She could blink, but she didn’t have the mobility to scrunch up her face and make mean faces at Warden Snape all day. She could barely flicker her eyes to see what all he was doing at the work bench, for crying out loud!

_“Oh, no! We can’t have that. No, no, no, we cannot have that! And I’m betting this rant isn’t helping, is it? Oh, this must be making your migraine **worse**! Tisk, tisk, tisk! We can’t have that, can we? IT WOULD JUST BE HORRIBLE-”_

“SILENCE!” bellowed Snape. He slammed a tight fist on the surface of the table. “Curb your anger, Miss Granger, or it will be the whip to you, again!”

_“Yes, Hermione...curb your impetuous nature or he’ll take out the whip,”_ mocked Voldemort, a mischievous glint to his eyes. _“Always the whip with this wizard. You would think he would use his wand. There are quite a few curses that replicate a good whipping.”_

_“No, please...not the whip,”_ whimpered Hermione.

“Then shut your trap!” Snape snarled, turning back to the table with its plethora of ingredients.

She rolled her eyes as best she could, _“Would be nice to have a functioning trap to shut.”_

“Be quiet or I will take your special whip off of that wall,” Snape pointed to the stone wall with an embellished mount with a brown-leather whip sitting on the silver hooks, “and you will get fifty lashes!”

_“Fifty lashes, Hermione,”_ sniggered Voldemort. He really was enjoying this too much. Seriously, he was forty-something-years-old. How could he act like a teenaged boy? He must have heard her thoughts, because he frowned, _“I do not act like a teenaged boy, mudblood. You would do well to show me the respect that I deserve, or fifty lashes will be a saving grace compared to what I will do to you.”_

_“Everyone is so touchy today,”_ grumbled Hermione.

She resigned herself to vague conversation and answering whatever Voldemort inquired about.. He enjoyed watching Snape work. It gave him an idea on how to reverse her state once she brought him forth through time. That was the deal she had struck with him; pull him through to the future, and he would cure what had been done to her. There would be an internment of servitude to Voldemort, but really...He was better than this life, right?

And she was close. A few more weeks, and the Dark Lord of legend would be in the future. He was a cruel Master, but she was still so fond of him. He was angelic compared to Umbridge and her “Ministry.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Pain. Hell and fire pain. Her brain was burning violently inside her skull and turning to ash, repeatedly. This seizure was the worst she had ever experienced. She convulsed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her jaw clenched of its own accord, and her tongue was lolling in her mouth almost choking her. She couldn’t even scream. The magic in her body was being drained away to replenish what was coming through the ‘tween-place. Snape immediately assumed it was due to the heavy dose of Oracle’s Blood he had administered early that day. Well, that was all fine and dandy; he would be caught unawares once Voldemort fully materialized in the present from the past.

The ‘tween-place. The void between space and time. The Dark Lord had explained it in extremely complex terms, but she had understood it completely. ‘Tween-place, void, nexus - tiny pockets separating the past from the present from the future. It all intermingled and yet remained completely separate. It was dark and noiseless in those little havens of limbo. Suspended in a hollow of non-gravity, it was a lonely place to be. Yes, he was still in the past, but her meddling had already affected the future from the point he disappeared from his time and was inserted into hers.

_“You are doing wonderfully, Hermione,”_ said Voldemort, his shimmering spectral form giving her his trademark smirk. He reached out a translucent hand to run a ghost-like finger down her rigid cheek. _“I will reward you greatly for this.”_

Charming. Charming smile, charming personality, charming everything. No one could ever say that Lord Voldemort was a fluffy rabbit ready to cuddle. He was cruel and vicious most of the time, but he was exceptionally charming when he wanted to be. He was the epitome of confidence with an air of entitlement that came naturally. Charismatically persuasive and charming, those were the attributes that she saw the largest percentage of the time she had known him. Yes, he had moments that made her seriously reconsider, but she was already in so far. She couldn’t withdraw her offer now. He was almost there. He was invisible to Snape at the moment, but he would substantiate soon enough. They were so close. She was so close to being freed.

“Miss Granger,” Snape seemed at a loss for words. He had tried everything in his encyclopedia-sized brain, but nothing was working to his favor. “You have to think. Explain your symptoms. I cannot correct this effect if you do not communicate what is happening internally.”

Was this arsehole serious? Her paralyzed body was convulsing on a ice-cold stone altar in his potions lab, and he wanted her to communicate what she was feeling? It was always surprising when her body moved involuntarily. Of course it was during excruciating seizures, but still it was shocking. Her muscles were contracting and reposing causing her body to jerk in uncomfortable positions. Teeth ground and pressed down against teeth making her jawline hurt.

And he expected her to give a detailed description while all of this was going on?

Bloody dunderhead.

_“Tell him to implement a Rejuvenation Draught with an infusion of jobs tears and powdered nettles, Hermione,”_ advised Voldemort, his slowly solidifying finger petting her temple. His voice was music, and it calmed her slightly as her body gave another violent quake. _“Communicate, Hermione. Do as he has asked.”_

It took her several moments until she found a sense of consistency. A brief reprise from pain, pain, pain. Her mind formed the words, broken but coherent enough to be understood by Snape, who gave a curt nod of his head before retrieving the ingredients. The Dark Lord’s spectre, half-substantiated by now, traced the lines of her bone structure and down the contours of her neck as she began to weaken. You will survive this, he said. I am merely using your body and magic as a conduit to my own means.

No-bloody-duh!

She was tired. If she could slip into the promising abyss of sleep, she would be happy. Unfortunately, the seizure-like effect of calling forth an all-powerful Dark Lord from past-happenings prevented sleep extremely well.

Snape was back. Goodness, didn’t he work quickly when his credibility was on the line! And with his, Drink this, Miss Granger - unclench your jaw and drink this.

Oh, if only she could unclench her jaw. If only she could function enough to make all of this stop. _“UNCLENCH IT YOURSELF!”_ She screamed mentally, completely forgetting that he could hear her thoughts. With a strength she feared would fracture the bones in her face, he wedged his fingers between her cheeks and pried her mouth open. The ladle holding the concoction was tipped and its scalding hot contents scorched down her throat.

The result was immediate in its slow progression through her veins. Her heart trafficked the relief into the many roadways that made up her vascular system. It mingled with her blood and sank into her joints and muscles. It could be noticed by the faint whimpers actually vocalized by her own chords. She was making sounds, voluntary sounds that were not a fluke. It was a miracle. The Dark Lord was making good on his end of the bargain, and that was what mattered the most to her. It warmed her heart, even if it was for the betterment of himself.

_“Suggest a thin-based oil foundation with powdered yucca, oil of coriander, and adders tongue,”_ urged Voldemort, a knowing smirk upon his perfect lips.

She did as he told her, the messenger between Snape and him. She could feel his touch, spongy and semi-solid against her flesh. Cloaked in the veils of time passing in order to bring him forth through the ‘tween space, Voldemort went unseen by Snape. It would continue as such until he was completely solid in her timeline, and the advantage of surprise would work in his favor.

Another potion down her throat, and she could feel all function returning to her as the last of her magic was drained from her to flow through Voldemort. One more seizure ripped through her and she screamed. It was a joyous and painful experience. To actually hear herself screaming because she could, she wanted to; and then she did. The sound rippled through her, vibrated and gave her that jolt of energy to stay awake. And as the pain clenched through her, it disappeared and she was left blinking and panting. Waiting.

Magic heated and sizzled in the air, filling every space available in the laboratory. It was heavy in the air, suffocating, as Voldemort materialized. His journey was done, and Hermione’s part was complete. She had done the impossible, the unthinkable. She had meddled with time to suit her own agenda, but if her present had yet to shift, then it had all been preordained, right?

Snape stood, looking at her and not yet noticing the Dark Lord standing behind him. The wand in Snape’s robe pocket slipped out in Voldemort’s hand and the greasy-haired wizard never noticed. The fact that he was too shocked at Hermione’s unparalyzed state to realize there was an extremely dangerous wizard behind him was a testament to his own ignorance. Still, he stared, wide-eyed, at Hermione while Voldemort sized up the man before him. It was as though the Dark Lord was deciding what he would do with Severus Snape, if the man should live or die. The look on the Dark Lord’s face was exquisite in Hermione’s eyes. It left her breathless, especially under the weight of the combination of Voldemort and her power filling the room.

In an attempt to speak, her first try failed, “Heh...heh’ssss...”

“What is it, Miss Granger? Are you not comfortable enough? It seems that you have outwitted me for the first time,” sneered Snape, earning a smirk from Voldemort behind him. “Who was supplying you with those remedies? There must be a rat sneaking in under my radar, Miss Granger - who is it?”

“Heeeh,” she failed again. Lack of use, atrophy; it would be a struggle to regain full function of her body now that she had it. “Hhhee...”

“What?! What are you trying to say, little girl?!” snarled Snape. Obviously, someone was _not_ a happy loser when it came to reversing what he had supposedly made irreversible.

She licked her lips, watching the Dark Lord take several steps back and roll Snape’s wand between his fingers. Taking a deep breath, she held it as Voldemort pocketed the dark-wood wand and withdrew his own, white yew. For the first time in two years, she smiled. It was small, vague, but it was a smirk as the corners of her mouth quirked upwards. The Dark Lord raised his yew wand and slashed it down, the tip aimed at Snape’s back. A vibrant red light emitted from it and hit the hook-nosed wizard square in the back. Snape’s eyes widened further as Hermione found her voice,

“He’s...here.”

Snape crumpled to the ground, unconscious. It seemed very anti-climatic to Hermione.

Voldemort gave her that charming smile that drew her in and captured her attention fully, “You have pleased me, my little mudblood. Now, are you prepared for the return of your own power? It will be quite painful, but I am certain that you will survive it. You have survived everything else.”

Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes as he bent over and lifted her in his arms. It was warm and he was solid. It made the realization settle around her that she had brought forth someone through the barriers of time. That Lord Voldemort was actually there, in her own timeline, holding her effortlessly in his arms and there was no sending him back. He was really here and Hermione felt a wave of relief wash over her and sink into her bones. And it felt so nice in those strong arms, safe.

“You are mine now, mudblood,” whispered Voldemort in that husky baritone that sent hot shivers down her spine. “And Lord Voldemort does not share what is his. Sleep now, Hermione...Sleep because this next step is quite painful....”

In that moment, she could not agree more. She was his. That seemed a fair trade, and Hermione was quite happy with that it all. _You are mine now, mudblood. And Lord Voldemort does not share what is his..._

And sleep seemed perfect; just what she needed. Sleep, yes...that sounded lovely...

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The End.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


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